Once Upon A Hero
by Newtinmpls
Summary: ESO story. Brave. Bold. Heroic. Sometimes it's not all it's cracked up to be. The tales told by soldiers are a little darker than the tales told by bards.
1. Chapter 1

_Authors note: As I have mentioned elsewhere, ESO is the first online gaming I have ever experienced. I've run into people who are concentrating on "working up" one character, as if achieving a certain level or title was somehow "the goal". My "goal" is playing the game and enjoying the universe. That being said, you may well note that NPCs in one of my ESO based stories are PCs in another._

 _This story began as an exploration of what it must be like living (and fighting to survive) in a Dragonbreak. Despite the fact that later history will record that there was only one "Hero" we all know there were many who started that path. Not all of them succeeded. This is meant to be the start of a longer story, but when I noted I'd left it so long that it was one day away from auto-delete, I thought I'd better post the darn thing just to save it._

 **Standard disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind, ESO or any of the other wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax. I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention.**

 **~~Tales around the Campfire~~**

"Aye, Coldharbor," Elvar's low voice rumbled across the camp. The moons were dark, and racing clouds meant that little starlight added to the dim red glow of fires that were mostly banked for the evening. "'The sky burns with chill flames. The treacherous ground is broken boulders of brittle shale, cracking underfoot to reveal thousand foot crevasses that will swallow the unwary."

In front of her, Kismet could see two younger members of the Order of the Dragon, eyes wide and expressions rapt, shivering with enthusiastic horror at the nord sergeant's evocative description. The dim light was barely enough for her to make out the edges of their dragon tattoos. Golden ink on pale skin told her that the willowy female on the right was an altmer. Her companion was heavier, though not as tall. She could make out a dark shock of wild hair, but nothing to confirm race. Judging from the width of the shoulders and the size of the maul that rested nearby, she suspected he was male.

She couldn't place them, but then a troop of twenty newer recruits had arrived two days ago. Elvar Bladedancer had wasted little time in initiating them into the not-as-heroic-as-the-bards-would-have-it tales of the more well known order members. Tonight, someone had asked about Cold Harbor. She knew this tale well, having heard it several times.

She moved slightly farther back into the darkness beyond the glowing embers of the nearest cook-fire. The first time she'd listened to Elvar's evocative descriptions of Cold Harbor, she too had shivered with delight and anticipation, imagining her undaunted bravery in the face of such peril. After her first actual battle with the distorted creatures from the realm that Elvar was describing, she was less interested in the imagery and more interested in the story.

The Nibenay Valley chapter-house had been one of the oldest of the Order's facilities. It had housed hundreds of people. Trained members of the order, Knights, Battlemages, Sorcerers and even a number of Nightblades. That didn't include the support staff and many of the family members. There had been homes nearby. A small mill.

All of it had been destroyed. Mostly what was left had been rubble.

Out of the estimated two hundred twelve persons that should have been there, only four bodies were found. At first. This was because the worm cult had taken all of the rest. Having resisted bravely, and been willing to die in the line of duty, they had not been killed, they had been sacrificed, claimed, and their souls sent to Cold Harbor.

Elvar's baritone seemed to echo in the darkness. "Oh, the worst of it is that you can die. And you will. Many times. The Wailing Prison is a place of torment. Hung on a hook, suspended over a steaming fumarole fueled by a volcanic magma flow. It takes hours, maybe days to cook you alive as you struggle ueslessly, watching your entrails drip, and then dry, and then darken and crisp in the terrible unrelenting heat."

The altmer seated at the storyteller's feet gave a little shiver.

The muscular companion gave a baritone growl that confirmed for Kismet that this was an orisimer.

"But perhaps it would be better to face torture, to struggle and know that you struggle." Elvar's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Because the alternative is endless labor. Some task, some duty, some boring or frustrating task that you cannot succeed at." He fixed his gaze on the orisimer in front of him. "How are your embroidery skills?"

"Pah," The orismer made a sound of disgust, "it would take more than a needle and thread to defeat me."

"Sewing," Elvar continued. "Hemming kerchiefs. Trimming gloves fit for bosmer sized fingers. Picking the thread out of what you'd made and then doing it over."

"I'd go mad."

"Not just once, but over and over. Not just days, but weeks of this. Make that same glove, then pull it apart, then make it again. Days stretching into weeks stretching into months ... years."

The orismer shook his head. "I'd escape, I'd ..."

"There is no escape." Elvar's voice was flat. Certain. "You would be rescued. Or you would stay there."

After a pause, the seargent continued. "You would try not to think about what you were doing. You would retreat into yourself, pulling away, sleeping, slowly drawn into despair. Time does not flow there like it does here. A day here ... it could be a very very long time."

"No.." But the orc's voice sounded uncertain.

"The rescue of Nibenay took place twenty-seven days after the initial attack. However apparently it had been a very very long time, because we found ... very little of our folk left when we got there."

"Got there?!" The altmer's voice was almost as high as a bosmer's, "you were one of the ones who went to Cold Harbor?"

"They were just standing," Elvar said softly. "Tens upon tens. Few even working unless lashed by one of the Dremora masters. They were faded, pale. They just stood there. I couldn't even tell if they were men or women. Just pale, lost souls, lost to despair."

Kismet shuddered at the thought. She would rather die.

Elvar shook his head. "I'm told by those who warded us, and held the portal for our return that we were only gone a day and a half. I would have sworn I had been down there longer." He paused. "We spent that time wandering through grey mists and shifting treacherous bogs. Hiding behind strange devices which pounded stone into rubble, manned by souls so lost they no longer had faces."

Someone behind her said. "But I heard ... I mean we all heard that ... That there was one."

The ruddly glow of the coals made Elvar's grimace look like a mask.

"Yes," he said eventually, "There was one who survived."

Kismet could hear the whispers, but she mostly ignored them, focusing on Elvar.

He nodded. "The Caemaire general."

"Ender." The orisimer in front of Kismet murmured. The name was echoed by several.

The altmer said, "But how did he do it? How did he ... survive?"

Elvar sighed. "I asked him that, myself."

In the quiet, Kismet could hear the sounds of night insects, and of something slithering through the nearby grasses. Probably some snake attracted to the heat of the campfires. How did you survive despair?

"What did he say?"

"He said," Elvar half-closed his eyes, as if caught in a memory, "He said 'I do not despair'." The storyteller's voice changed then. His next words were a low rumble of meanace. In the firepit a coal hissed and the brief flames were reflected in his eyes.

"I take vengeance."

Despite the heat of the coals, Kismet felt the cold of the night, of that voice settle into her bones.

She shifted position, just to better feel the weight of the staff she wore across her back. She knew that the worm cult's forces targeted members of the Order of the Dragon when they could. She knew that many of the Order had been lost. Would be lost.

If she was taken, could she remember this story?

Would vengance be enough?


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I play a bit fast and loose with the idea that spending time in Cold Harbor (not to mention having been sacrificed) is not good for the continuity of one's memories. This forms a quite convenient explanation for how the various PCs start with so little in the way of skills, and also how they progress to quickly - they aren't learning, but rather re-learning._

 **Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. Used plot bunnies will be credited.**

 **~~Return~~**

Kismet shivered as she woke. Cold stone, and embers of a fire that gave no warmth. Blinking, she sat up, working the cramps out of muscles that felt as if they'd gone unused for years. She was ... she was someplace unfamiliar. Looking around she saw more stone and for a moment she wondered if it was a cave; had she been somehow trapped in a cave-in? Then she finished turning and saw jagged bars, and an oversized lock. A prison? But where, and more importantly why?

There was a mist of sorts in the air, and everything seemed off. Blueish. In the distance she could hear screams. Looking down at herself, she wore a ragged poorly woven thing that could only be called a robe or gown by the most generous of exaggerations.

No.

A hissing drew her attention to the front of the cell. Coming close to the jagged rusted bars she peered out at the sight of three weakly struggling figures chained by their wrists, suspended high in the air. Below them, a fumerole was beginning to rumble, and gouts of steam shot upward through a grate. The steam slowly grew, obscuring the three figures.

They hadn't been screaming, though. Maybe their struggles were an illusion; the bodies merely twisting in the hot air currents from the steam. She wasn't sure, and didn't really want to look more closely.

Nauseated, she looked away, wanting to vomit, but having nothing to bring up.

A whispered voice called her attention to the right side of the cell door. A faint shimmer that almost seemed for a moment to be the motions of many tiny wings resolved itself into the translucent shape of an older man in once-fine robes. "Find Lyris." His voice was hoarse, but his diction was crisp and spoke of noble breeding. "She will rescue me, and I in turn shall rescue you."

He kept talking, but his voice faded, as if somehow he was getting more distant. She wasn't sure what was happening, and tried to concentrate on catching any of what he might be saying. Only a few words were clear enough; forseen, destiny and what sounded like scroll. Not enough to make out what he was getting at. She stayed still, listening intently even after he seemed to be gone.

"You!" A loud voice called from the front of her cell, and she jumped back. An impossibly tall blond nord stood in front of the door to her cell, weilding an axe with a blade almost the size of Kismet's torso. "I'll get you out of here!" Suiting actions to words, the woman raised the axe and swung it in an arc, sheaing through the heavy metal lock like it had been a sapling.

Kismet hastily pushed the door open, and kicked the broken lock away. Instantly she regretted that, as the metal was sharply painful to her bare feet. She had no shoes or boots on. To distract herself, she asked "Who are you?"

The huge woman smiled breifly. "Well there's more to you than most of these poor soul shriven. The name's Lyris."

Kismet blinked. "He mentioned you." Belatedly she realized she had no real idea of who 'he' might be.

"The Prophet!" Lyris exclaimed. "I'm here to get him out of here."

Stepping foward, Kismet asked. "Where is 'here' anyway?"

Lyris' expression was determination and sympathy in equal parts. "Cold Harbor" she said.

Kismet's mouth went dry. "I'm dead." she whispered. But at the same moment, she remembered the Caemaire general - he had come back from Cold Harbor. There had to be a way. Vengance, he'd said.

"You are dead," Lyris agreed, "but if the Prophet spoke with you, he must have something in mind."

Behind Lyris, Kismet could see the fallen form of a talon-fingered Dremora. He ... or maybe she wore spiked armor ... and probably had carried a weapon of some kind. Kismet strode over to examine what was left, and sure enough despite the fact that none of the armor could possibly fit, there was a sword that would do for the moment.

"I'd like to meet this Prophet of yours." Kismet said firmly.

Lyris raised an eyebrow. "We'll probably have to kill quite a few of them," She nodded to the fallen guard.

Kismet nodded and gave her newly aquired weapon a careful swing. A little heavier than she would have prefered, but the balance was good. She looked up at Lyris. "I'm looking foward to it." She said.

The Nord laughed.

The journey through Cold Harbor, or at least the prison part of it, was nightmarish at best. Worse than the sounds of torture, and sights of prisoners pulled apart, or roasting over pits, or being eaten alive by odd-shaped creatures, were the many who just stood. Doing nothing, unless whipped.

Uneasily Kismet thought of the way she'd stood, staring after the Prophet's message. Had Lyris not come along, she might be one of them.

It was lingering fear that drove her. She found an unused pack, and filled it with anything that looked useful; a few coins, a spare boot knife. She searched the fallen guards and the motionless semi-dead for anything that might fit her. Anything that might offer more protection than the ragged garment she'd worn initially.

By the time they found the magically-warded cell holding the Prophet prisoner, she was beginning to hope that Lyris might be able to find a way to get them back to the world of life, to Nirn.

Which of course was when Lyris explained "the trick" that was needed to free the Prophet. Someone had to stay in his place. Someone live.

Which ruled out Kismet. Or pretty much any of the other prisoners.

Kismet watched numbly as Lyris let herself be taken into the warding; freeing the ragged garbed prisoner.

Before she could say anything, the "Prophet" turned his sightless gaze to meet her own. "Come. I shall show you a way out of here. You must trust me."

She glanced back at the enchanted cell, which now held the pale-haired form of Lyris, and nodded. She would trust him for now. After all, she was already in Oblivion. It wasn't like it could get much worse.

 **~~Getting Her Bearings~~**

Daggerfall. She thought that she'd probably been here before, but even a week out of Cold Harbor, nothing much seemed familiar. It was frustrating. Everything was new, sort of. Everywhere she went was the tantalizing sense that she'd done this before, and better.

It had taken her that whole week to realize that if there were going to be any records of her, they would probably be associated with money. Hence one of the financial guilds would be the best place to start looking.

So after what felt like several hours of waiting in a twisting, slow moving line of not-entirely-patiently waiting men, mer and beastmen, she eventually attracted the brusque attention of a nominally pretty, but clearly overworked coinclerk who hastily opened a personal account portal for her.

"I'll-be-happy-to-answer-any-questions-you-might-have." The harried Breton told her without taking a breath. A moment later the clerk was fully occupied with a thoughtful looking Nord who smelled of alcohol and fire, and had an axe casually slung across his back that probably weighed more than Kismet did herself.

Sighing softly to herself, Kismet looked through the access portal at the listing of her account. Under the heading of the Daggerfall office of the Guild of Personal and Family Finances was a listing of a collection of items that was a lot closer to empty than she'd somehow expected. There were 17 septims, a heavily made engraved lute that appeared to have seen heavy use, but was still not only playable, but in tune, and what looked to be at least fifty pounds of good quality iron ore. Two tokens of service due from the Imperial stables that would each be good for a night's stable-age for a mount. Which was nice in theory, but she couldn't afford to feed herself yet, much less cover the costs of owning a horse. That was it. She stared at the list, frustrated. She had somehow expected there would be … more.

She didn't have much to deposit. Four bars of bluish tinged ore from her deconstruction of some of the poorer quality blades she'd managed to bring with her back from ... a shudder went down her spine ... back from where she had been. Another service token from the local stables that she'd earned earlier in the week with hard, smelly labor.

Her mother's name was not on the account. In fact there was no listing of secondary or additional access. Only her own name: Kismet Appollonia Tharn. That didn't seem right either. She would have had family ... or at least a next of kin listed. Someone from the Order of the Dragon.

She frowned, certain there had been other names. After a long moment it finally occured to her that the enchantments wound by the Banking Guild would surely have eliminated the names of anyone who had died.

Between the war ... and the worm cult, a lot of people had died in the last few years.

Slowly she caressed the neck of the lute. The wood was warm under her fingertips. It felt familiar, but she couldn't think of any song that she actually knew how to play.

She shook her head. She'd figure out something.

"Thank you," she attempted to smile pleasantly at the blond Breton who'd opened her access portal, "I'm done for now."

She was rewarded with a fleeting attempt at a smile. "Thank-you-for-your-kind-patronage-miss," A quick pause as the coinclerk closed the access portal. "Miss-Tharn." The coinclerk blinked, clearly startled, and her smile became slightly forced. Another moment and she was gone helping yet another of the seemingly endless customers. This one, an irritated caramel-skinned regard woman clad in volumous crimson and black robes.

Kismet glanced down at herself. She was garbed in a worn leather hauberk in the straps-and-buckles style common to the argonians, along with an assortment of equipment that would be better rendered for materials than actually worn. The rest she'd sold for a scant two septims. Her axe was adequate at best. A pack holding stale trotter pie, a couple of bottles of a low-quality but highly alcoholic brew optimistically labeled "aqua vitae". The only items of any quality she had were a leather-covered shield with the triple loop design of Glenumbra worked into it, and a minimally enchanted maple stave with a head reminiscent of stylized flame with a makers mark that said 'Riverthorne'.

She shrugged, and muttered to herself. "Time to look for better work."

Kismet stepped out of the relative warmth of the bank into a day that had gone from mere overcast to downright thunderous. Small crackles of lightning in the distance warned of an impending storm. Just what she needed; argonians didn't care much about rain and chill, but she did.

She needed a job. Or at least something to do.

She made her way slowly down the steps of the bank. Few people were about; probably mostly drinking and taking shelter from the coming bad weather. A couple of beggars lingered by the fountain in the square, eyeing the passers-bye with expressions of hopelessness.

Surely she wouldn't be reduced to that. No, no she wouldn't. Inwardly she repeated her mantra: I don't do despair, I get angry.

Something would turn up.

"Kismet. Appallonia. Tharn..?" The masculine voice held a confident inflection that spoke of military and officer, and a curiosity that said he was pretty who she was, but perhaps had not known her well.

She turned to look. Standing by the fountain was a brown haired man. An imperial citizen like herself.

The first thing she noticed was his nose. It had been broken, probably many times over the years. The nose said that he was a fighter, and that he could handle pain and injury. He stood with the reflexive shoulders-back posture of someone who had spent most of his life in some sort of military order. Without even thinking about it, she stood a little straighter just looking at him.

Then she took in more details. Like his chest. Which was naked. And rather nicely muscled. The axe from his belt was poorly made but well used, and the sheen of it started a chill down her spine. It had the unmistakable bluish tinge of metals forged in Cold Harbor.

The pants he wore were coarse woven and the pale yellow-green color of someone's vomit after days of no real food.

Shocked, she looked up to meet his gaze. Imperial by heritage, military by training, and he had the equipment, and the clothing, and somehow the look of someone who had been where she had been. Cold Harbor. He'd been there, and come back. Just like she had.

Since she'd come back, there were too many holes in her memory, so it shouldn't be a surprise that even if she had once known or met him, she couldn't place him now. Was he a friend? An enemy? Her first impulse was to try and help him, but stayed where she was and tried to sound calm when she spoke. "Do I know you?"


End file.
